It's cold. Colder still down on the shore-line. The kind of cold that is savage and merciless. The kind that stops the tide in its tracks and makes strange ice sculptures of it.
Covering the grassy tussocks with crisp white sheets and disguising the depth of the surrounding channels so that a wrong step could be treacherous. The kind of cold that says Keep Off. Keep Away.
The kind of cold that turns the muddy merse into frozen deathtrap skating rinks to catch the unwary by distracting them with the salmon skies of the evening...
... that intensify with each lingering minute and draw the eye from the careful watching of each cautious footfall. And still, out along the margins the birds whistle and call even as darkness falls on their hostile world.
Until the bitter breeze whispers through the bleak rushes that it's time to go home and close out the cruelty of the night.
And reminds me to be thankful that I can.